


Talk Less, Smile More

by PumpkinPaella



Series: Tales from a post-war Ivalice. [1]
Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, Gen, Politics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinPaella/pseuds/PumpkinPaella
Summary: At war's end, Orran must go on.
Series: Tales from a post-war Ivalice. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063673
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Talk Less, Smile More

As the adopted son of a count, Orran  Durai was accustomed to creature comforts, but he was bewildered by his treatment after his prison escape.

After his admittedly brash effort at revealing the truth of the Duke’s assassination, he found himself promptly thrown into the dungeon once more. Within its damp stone walls, he thought he would slowly and surely waste away. To his surprise, however, only a few hours passed before knights escorted him out of the dungeon and into an obscure apartment in one of the castle’s towers, where despite having guards constantly posted at the exterior of his door, he at least also had the luxury of a warm bed, three meals a day, and even a shelf of assorted books for entertainment. 

_ Not the worst possible punishment for what I´ve done _ , he thought drily. After all, Delita had also struck his own assistant unconscious and had her sent to the dungeons, where her fate could be anything. He had not seen much of her throughout their time at Zeltennia, but her pert features and icy eyes remained vivid in his mind. He hoped she was well.

Resigning himself to the grim reality of being at Delita’s mercy, he spent much of the next three or four weeks (he lost count of the days sometime after the first fortnight) mulling over the plight of his father and Ramza. Whether or not Delita’s self-serving aims would come to fruition now did not concern him nearly as much as whether any of them would be able to resume their lives with a semblance of peace after the war. Indeed, he mused, perhaps Delita could be of help in ensuring that Ramza would no longer have to flee for his life as a heretic. As for his father, Orran knew that the famous Thunder God was now a dead  turncloak as far as all  of  Ivalice w as  concerned. If he were to survive, he would have no choice but to take on a new identity and live in the disgraced shadow of his former self. The thought made his blood boil, but what could he do? 

_ It could be worse, _ he supposed.  _ They might be dead.  _

_ That _ thought was infinitely more worrisome. He tried to keep it out of his mind as much as possible, lest it drive him mad before his confinement would. The dreadful prospect nevertheless transcribed itself into the book and volume of his brain with regularity, particularly when he lay in his bed at night, and as the days rolled by, his hopes that he would see them alive became ever dimmer. 

One morning, shortly after a servant brought him his breakfast, he heard heavy footsteps outside his door.  To his surprise, in  came Delita, his gold-trimmed cape trailing behind him. He dismissed the guards. 

“Yes, milord,” they replied in near-unison. 

The door closed behind him with a solid thud, and he looked at his prisoner with a solemn and scrutinizing expression. 

Determined not to give his captor the appearance of capitulation, Orran said nothing and returned his stare with an equally serious expression. At last, it seemed the upstart lord could take the silence no longer. 

“I hope your stay these past few weeks has been pleasant, Orran,” Delita said cordially. Orran’s expression did not soften. 

“Does this mean I will soon be free?” said Orran, his voice thin with weariness. 

“Not quite yet. You still have not told me where your allegiance lies.”

“If I said I would be willing to serve you after all, would you release me?” 

“If by ‘release you’ you mean ‘allow you free range without supervision, I’m afraid I have no mind to do that anytime soon. I can, however, let you roam the castle freely if you will agree to be compliant from henceforward.” 

_ As if I were a hound. _ Orran’s frown deepened. “I have no wish for a gilded cage.” 

“You and your brash declarations,” Delita said flatly. When he next spoke, his voice was low. “Orran, I´m afraid I have also come here to inform you of a very serious matter.” He paused as if to consider his next words. “There has recently been an explosion at  Orbonne Monastery. It has been reduced to ashes and rubble. Ramza and his companions were last seen storming Orbonne, and they have not been found.” 

Orran felt numb. Delita continued, “There is still much we do not know of the nature of the incident. An investigation is being conducted, but it seems more likely than not that everyone within the edifice perished.” 

“My father….” 

“I know, Orran.” Delita’s voice was tinged with something resembling sympathy. “I’m sorry.” 

_ How dare you, _ Orran thought, tears welling in his eyes. How dare the man who tarnished his father’s name now feign to offer condolences ? Heedless of the risk of speaking so boldly, he looked up at Delita with a deadly sharpness . 

“How terribly convenient for you that this happened…” 

Delita’s eyes suddenly flared equally dangerously.  Orran instinctively gripped the arms of his chair, unsure of what to anticipate.  Delita stepped toward Orran until he towered over him menacingly.

“You know nothing,” he said simply. He backed away with a dark stare.

A long silence ensued. Despite the shock of the news, Orran couldn’t help but feel a tinge of satisfaction feeling that he had surely pierced the upstart lord’s conscience.  He wondered if he would walk out of the room without another word, leaving him imprisoned again, but Delita instead took a chair and sat down facing him. His expression no longer seemed to contain rage, but a quality that almost gave an impression of desperation. 

“Orran…please, listen.” 

“I’m listening,” he replied stonily. 

“The war has finally ended. The Northern Sky has been defeated, with both Lord  Dycedarg and Zalbaag slain. The High Confessor has been found dead as well.” 

“The High Confessor, too? Who killed him?” 

“His death has been attributed to Ramza, but we all know the Church is not the most reliable source of knowledge on such matters.” 

There was another uncomfortable silence. 

“My point is, Orran, that  Ivalice is now finally at peace. The upper nobility and high clergy, which have for so long gorged off of the blood of the people, are gone, and now we have the chance to begin anew. To bring justice, peace, and prosperity for everyone, not only those holding the reins." He faced Orran directly. "We have all suffered during this war to some degree or other. Will you not put aside your anger and grief, at least partly, to help your fellow countrymen in this monumental task?” He sighed. “The  Lesalian court is sure to contain no dearth of vipers, and as loathe as I am to admit it, your talents and honesty will be greatly needed.” 

Orran was pensive. The man could certainly speak persuasively. It was also the first time he had ever seen him display any degree of humility. The grandiose peacockery of the  Lesalian court held no appeal for Orran, but perhaps it was all the more reason to go willingly and help rebuild the kingdom.

_ What would Father want me to do?  _

Feeling something deep welling within him, he sighed and finally said, “I see. You certainly make good points. It isn’t with hesitation that I follow your direction, but my love of our kingdom compels me to agree.” It’s not like he had much of a choice, anyway.

Delita made a slight shadow of a smile. “I knew you would come around. I will make an announcement this evening declaring you a free and innocent man. You may now roam the castle at your will.” With this, he made to leave, but suddenly stopped at the doorway and turned to face him again. 

“I am putting a tremendous amount of trust in you.” 

“I am aware of that,” said Orran, keeping a carefully neutral countenance. “What would you have me do?” 

“Talk less…smile more. That’s my advice. As the saying goes, fools who run their mouths oft wind up dead.” Delita continued in a less severe tone, “I trust you’ll make no trouble, and will thus have nothing to worry about.” With that, he left, leaving the door entirely ajar, the first time Orran had seen it so in weeks. 

**Author's Note:**

> As a fan of FFT, I had been toying with the idea of writing a fanfic on it for quite some time, and I finally gathered the courage (and patience!) to do so. The title is from the musical Hamilton. This is the first fanfiction work I have ever posted, so any feedback is very much appreciated!


End file.
